


The Quiet Place

by Idol_pastimes



Category: EastEnders (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:54:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23237284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idol_pastimes/pseuds/Idol_pastimes
Summary: Noise has always loomed large in Callum's life.  From the shouting and crashing of his childhood home to the barked orders, jeers and explosions of his life in the army, the expectation of a certain decibel level has become second nature to him.  He likes it.  He seeks it out.  He finds comfort in it.Callum does not like the silence.  He's just never considered why until now.
Relationships: Callum "Halfway" Highway/Ben Mitchell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 72





	The Quiet Place

**Author's Note:**

> A piece I started last week before the world's madness seemed to ratchet up to a 10. :/ 
> 
> I'd noticed Ben was saying less and less and the noises he did make were almost unthinking, little hmms, etc. when trying to read someone. Then, that scene with him and Lexi on the sofa stood out as being so soft and vulnerable... I had to write something. 
> 
> Turns out, Callum wanted to be the star of the show this time, though. So... this happened? Unsure of what it is, but in the absence of any EE on Thursday or Friday, it has given me time to at least finish this off and get it shifted off my desktop so I can try some of the writing prompts over on Tumblr!
> 
> Hope this finds everyone as safe and well as they can be. x

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Callum was growing scared of the quiet.

He had never lived the most noisy of lives. In fact, he’d made a conscious habit of keeping as muted as possible in the Highway household for the majority of his childhood, if only out of a desperate sense of self-preservation and full knowledge of what drawing any unwanted attention could lead to. 

He loved to talk, though. More often than not, he couldn’t _stop_ talking, even when he didn’t have anything constructive to say, as so many of his teachers, commanding officers and, well, _any_ acquaintances had told him, time and again, throughout the years. He knew it, but he couldn’t stop himself; he’d always supposed it was a reaction to having to be so silent at home, everything just spilled out of him when he was away from his father, away from that house.

It wasn’t that he _craved_ it, not really. He just _liked_ it. Always had. Like, he’d always had thoughts that just wanted to fall out of his mouth, and he never really cared who was listening. It just happened, and sometimes people found it funny, or irritating, or childish. It never mattered to him. Not really. So long as he was interacting with someone, _anyone_ , he was happier than he would have been if he was by himself.

He liked people. He wasn’t _lonely_ , not all of the time. And he wasn’t _desperate_. But he liked to talk and he liked to listen and the only way that happened was around other people, even those who didn’t really care to be around him.

He filled pauses with words. He flooded silence with anything that came into his head. He wantonly, deliberately and aggressively avoided silence. Had done for years.

Even with Whit, her constant chatter about her ideas for the stall, her family, the flat, the wedding, all of it was just a comfort. He could recognise it now, the noise that pushed away the empty spaces, the echo chamber resounding and filled with vibrations when she was around. He could see it all for what it was, looking back. Sound in the hollowness. 

He’d thought he’d loved her. Loved her vivacity and passion and bright hair and even more colourful past and all the stories she could share and dream and plan-

It was quieter with Ben.

Strangely, and mostly unexpectedly, as God only knew, Ben was not a shrinking violet by any means. He was not one for hiding his light under a bushel, and if he could have a go at someone, or cause a scene, or prove a point by mouthing off or getting in someone’s face, he’d be there in a heartbeat. But in their time, in their shared spaces and shared moments, they didn’t need to fill it up with noise. They could just sit, smile, drink together, share a packet of crisps and that’d be it. And God, he had started to love it. For the first time in so long, he wanted moments of nothingness, minutes of silence and just _quiet_.

Sitting side by side and holding hands, rubbing a thumb across his skin. Touching shoulders when relaxing in the Vic, thigh pressed alongside the other’s. Meeting his eye while Kathy fluttered about them in the café, chattering about Ian and his schemes as they shared a smile. Of knowing, just _knowing_ that the day would be alright because they would meet up at the flat later and just _be_ for a couple of hours before work and family called again. Hours of sharing a sofa, of touching Ben’s hair, of waking him slowly and gently after drifting off mid-film _again_ but needing to nip to the bathroom and being too scared to move in case it ruined the bubble of heavy contentment that seemed to encase them both once Ben sunk down to rest his ear against his chest once more.

It hadn’t been so scary, the quiet. Callum had been growing to like it.

And then, he didn’t.

It had been easy to ignore at first. Overjoyed at being home, being safe. Seeing Stuart and being able to chuck that cursed suit out and visit with Mick and take as many painkillers as he needed to keep the ache of his ribs at bay and…

Ben’s face and voice had just about broken his heart. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed the very _sound_ of it until he’d walked into the Mitchell house, aching and sore and overwhelmed by everything Stu had told him. Until he’d seen Ben’s face, wide open and clear and _hurting_ and he’d clamped his lips shut, almost as though he had to stop words from falling out. Then, the curt, trite responses, bubbling over into sadness and longing and brave, stupidly honourable declarations. It had cut Callum to the bone to hear that voice again after what had seemed an eternity of silence, of waiting for Ben. He’d imagined him; dreamed of him, perhaps, while he was out of it. Had heard him calling to him, even before they could possibly have been at the factory. Callum was sure of it. 

Still, it hadn’t been like the real thing. Nothing could be. And it hurt him to think of the panic Ben had felt and hurt him again to hear it now, in his surety that Callum’s best option was to leave him and his deafness behind. 

How could he leave when that sound, that voice was what had kept on calling him back? 

He heard the fear there. He heard the desolation. But, even so, the sound of it healed and warmed him, it burst in his ears and reassured him that Ben was _here_ and _his_ and once he heard him again, properly, for the first time in days, he couldn’t stop listening. 

The way Ben rounded his mouth around the ‘um’ in his name. The jerk of his head and neck at the end of each sentence. That cocky expression mixed with a flirty wink that used to infuriate him but now would sear and burn, as he knew it was for him and him alone.

Callum loved the sass and fierceness of every word out of Ben’s mouth, loved every quiet _babe_ and sarcastic quip with equal fervour. He loved the sound of him; not because he was noisy, just because he’d sneakily started to fill up Callum’s empty spaces with everything that was good and caring and attentive, without ever seeming to try.

And then, suddenly, it was all a touch too loud. Ben’s voice pushed out into any room they were sitting in, sometimes only inches apart, yet the clear evidence of Ben’s deafness exemplified by his words, by the timbre of his voice, his mouth and vocal chords striving to force a reconnect back to his own ears, trying to project enough so that maybe, maybe they’d catch a sliver of what they knew, logically, was hanging in the air.

Callum hadn’t flinched, he was sure of it. He’d been so happy to hear Ben that he wasn’t sure if his body _could_ have reacted negatively; the sound of him caused an instant smile to form on his face, and he knew most of the time he looked like a dope. He knew he looked lovesick and childlike. He didn’t care.

But it made it all the more strange and all the more noticeable when Ben stopped talking. Callum started to dread that silence.

It came in waves. He’d noticed it first around Lexi. Ben would smile and speak with his little girl, staring into her eyes and repeating each sign back to her with a gaze that spelled out his adoration without need for words. Then he’d ask her a leading question designed to pack her off to another room with a smile, and once she’d gone, he’d clamp his lips together in frustration; with himself, with his ears, with _everything_. He wouldn’t say a word for minutes, hours, just tipping his head with scrunched eyes for clarification from Callum or Jay or whoever was talking, then shaking it after a moment and waiting for a typed version to help him grab the gist.

As the days went on, Ben was trying less and less and Callum was growing nervous. He couldn’t help but reach out whenever he was around his boyfriend, sliding a hand around his shoulders or rubbing his bicep as he passed. They’d always been tactile, he knew, _abnormally so_ , Jay had said, straight-faced and making gagging noises but with a sparkle in his eye. But he’d stopped being so open, so grabby, as he was making Ben jump. He could feel himself doubting when he could touch, when he could lace their fingers together or whether Ben’d need them to sign something to Lex, or he’d need to type on his phone or when Ben would just want to withdraw suddenly from their group, tired and isolated and so, so sad.

The few words Callum had heard from Ben over the last few days were so muted that he’d barely caught them, and didn’t he feel like dirt when he’d had to ask Ben to repeat them? The look he’d garnered from his instinctive reaction to put a hand to his own ear to have Ben say them again and the burn of shame across his face had left him mortified for hours afterwards, even when Ben had shook his head and told him he _was fine, it was fine, don’t worry about it_.

It was like Ben’s deafness was creeping out over, making him scared of using his voice, scared of speaking, scared of being too loud or sounding _off_ or _wrong_ or _different_.

It made it all the more heartbreakingly obvious when Callum had started to notice instead the tiny squeaks and moans Ben was making, and moreover, that he was completely unaware of them. 

When he didn’t catch a word or missed the beginning of a sentence, Ben’s head would tilt just _so_ , and the faintest chirrup of a question seemed to ripple from him, unintentional and so delicate that it had caught Callum off guard the first time he’d heard it. A sound so soft that it felt almost private, something that others, _strangers_ , shouldn’t get to hear.

And it went further still. Because he knew _why_ he felt so strongly about them, too. Callum had heard those noises before, but only when he and Ben were together. Alone. They were noises he recognised as _theirs_ , for want of another word. And he was growing increasingly irritated by the fact that this accident, this injury, had taken one more thing, one more _private_ , _personal thing_ from Ben, and that his boyfriend wasn’t even aware of it.

Ben’d always been an enthusiastic kisser, Callum could vouch for that. He’d always taken it as a sign of Ben’s utter abandonment, him losing himself in Callum, in their shared world, leaving himself open and vulnerable, if only for the times that he was in Callum’s arms. And it would devastate him, Callum knew, if Ben thought he was making those same noises aloud where others could hear them. He’d wrapped an arm around Ben when they were watching TV with Lexi, and dragged his fingers across Ben’s scalp, unthinking. The moue of settled pleasure had escaped Ben’s throat instantly, and Callum had had to hide his blush behind a cough as he saw both Jay and Lola glance over, smiling at the happy sound.

He knew it wasn’t important. He knew that Lo and Jay were family, and that they were glad that Ben had someone he could feel so relaxed around. But that wasn’t the point. Ben wouldn’t have shown them, wouldn’t have chosen to. It was like he hadn’t just lost his ability to hear, he was losing his ability to maintain the distances and personas that helped to make him who he was, make him strong, that had helped keep him safe and sane over the years, and Callum was just watching it happen. He didn’t know how to stop it.

The quiet that he’d grown to long for, grown to love, was becoming a time where he felt like Ben was closer to him than ever before, but at the same time, was slowly moving further away.

He’d come in from work on an evening, and for two days, Callum had found Ben sitting in front of the TV with Lexi, the little girl’s eyes pinned on the screen, subtitles in place, and Ben just sitting, playing with her hands. The difference between the fingers was noticeable; Ben’s softer, wider, but achingly gentle, whereas Lexi’s were slender and quick, oftentimes clumsy but butterfly soft and learning to become more expressive. 

Callum had dropped to sit on the arm of the sofa and run a hand over Ben’s hair, nudging his shoulder with his hip. Ben hadn’t even looked up, just dropped his head to rest against Callum’s side and carried on his exploration without a word until Callum had eventually asked Lexi what they were doing for tea. There was never an issue with Lexi’s speech; Callum remembered his own loquaciousness – try _gobbiness_ , he could almost hear Stuart saying – and smiled, knowing that their biggest challenge most days was trying to _stop_ the child from talking. She more than made up for her father’s selective mutism, but again, it emphasised the distance growing between Ben and the rest of the room, and if he hadn’t felt the warmth of his head pressing against his ribs, Callum would have been hard pressed to see any kind of life in his boyfriend. 

It was as Callum had always feared. With silence came the emptiness, the loneliness – that bone-deep, devastating loneliness – that he’d spent years trying to outrun. He was terrified that it had caught up to him, but in the worst possible way; via the one person who’d managed to start to fill up his empty spaces.

So he became louder. More cheery. Gesticulating with face and hands, over-compensating to the point that he knew Ben was starting to get irritated. Whilst Ben was fine with causing a scene, whenever and as often as he chose to, he did not appreciate being thrust into the limelight when he was so clearly struggling to cope. But Callum couldn’t seem to stop, and he could feel himself sliding back into old habits.

Trying to fill the quiet with his own voice just seemed to amplify the loneliness. He’d learned that a long time ago. Still. He couldn’t stop. 

_Subtitled cinema screening, fancy it?_

_Found some sign language courses; I’ll sign us up!_

_You wanna come for a run?_

_A pint might be good…_

_Could grab Lex and go to the park. Want to check with Lo and see if we can pick her up from school later?_

_I could murder a coffee; let’s go over to your Mum’s place and have a sit down, get out of the flat, yeah?_

_Ben? You want to go out? Or we could just stay in…_

_You’re really getting good at lip reading. Have you been practising? We could practise together; I know I talk fast but you could teach me to speak so it’s easier for you-_

_Do you wanna go to bed? It’s still early but I’ve got some ideas on how we could pass the time…_

_I’ve been thinking about putting off the police-thing. Got a lot going on, don’t we? I might just see how things settle first before jumping into something else…_

_Ben…_

_Ben?_

_Talk to me?_

_Please?_

He was sick of his own voice. Sick of how he couldn’t keep track of how fast he was speaking, how he kept _forgetting_ , of knowing that his mouth was lax and didn’t form words clearly, that it made Ben frustrated and withdrawn. Sick of listening to himself and no one else when all he wanted, all he wanted in the world was to be able to speak to his boyfriend and have their noise, the sound of _them,_ even the sound of them _choosing to sit in silence_ surround him just for a moment. To just go back to that time, that tiny, brief, infinitesimal time when he was just _happy_. When, inside and out, he was filled with the sounds of contentment, of _wholeness_. When their noise was _theirs_ and only theirs, and wasn’t the topic of gossip around the square or anyone else’s business. When they didn’t have to go through doctors and text messages and _Mr-f-ing-Tumble_ to just _be_. 

He wasn’t proud when Ben had found him one night, face damp and hot and quickly swiped semi-dry with the cuff of his hoody sleeve. 

He thought he’d been quiet. Then, he realised, it wouldn’t have mattered if he hadn’t been, and cried all the more.

He’d felt lower than low when he’d let Ben pull him close and buried himself in his boyfriend’s stomach, staying folded on the edge of their bed as he’d sobbed, loud and long, arms wrapped around Ben’s waist.

He’d kept his gaze fixed on their bedsheets as Ben had stripped them both down and pushed and cajoled him until they were lying, front to front, Callum’s fringe lying floppy and limp across his forehead and Ben placing his lips against it, holding him close and hushing him long after there was no more noise in the room.

It was quiet again, then.

But not so empty. Not lonely.

A different type of quiet, perhaps. Callum’s hand found the side of Ben’s face and lay there, gentle and tentative, tracing the soft scruff.

‘We’ll get there, babe.’

Callum nodded and took a deep breath, filling his lungs with air and all the darker, deeper places inside him with the treasured sound of the carefully uttered words.

‘Yeah. Yeah, we will.’


End file.
